At every point in my life thus far, there’s been one city – or country, for that matter – that I’ve wanted with almost the same amount of desperation as I currently want Boston. I remember when I was about 6, or 7, attempting to learn Spanish because “I really really wanna live in Mexico, dadda!”
It also gave me a great cover for watching Dora the Explorer – my excuse was that I wanted to learn Spanish with Dora. The truth? I just wanted to watch Dora, dammit.
Similarly, my focus shifted to Dubai – and I actually did end up moving to Dubai – then back to Lahore, then to Geneva – something that still sticks a bit – and then, around the age of 14, I fell in love with New York City. And it was very, very cliched, but I still look back at that fixation fondly.
There was something about it – the big city life, the lights, the world encompassed by one city of 12 million…I don’t remember, really, what exactly it was that made me fall for NYC as badly as I did. Maybe it was how fashionable and glamourous it was…maybe it was the dirty, dank, sheer “city-ness” of it. Hell, it was probably a combination of the two. Add to that the appeal of NYU, and sweet, over-ambitious, over-achieving, freshman Neiha had a heart simply a-flutter with possibilities.
One of the biggest influencing factors, however, was and is my love of history and in particular, the Roarin’ Twenties – that scandalous, extravagant world at the brink of economic catastrophe, with all its classy fashion and drunken debauchery, a world of contrasts where the American Dream was exemplified with uneven proportions of success and ruin (the former more so than the latter, in typical American fashion).
For a history buff like me, good lord, that was a world of beauty. I loved the opulence. I loved the facades. I loved the idea of clandestine bars and short skirts and short hair, and jazz music. I loved the thought and the feel of sitting at a bar stool, listening to people crooning cabaret and whispering notes into saxophones.
Even now, when I’m so irrevocably in love with Boston, the idea of sitting at a jazz bar set against the backdrop of New York City makes me grin and fills me with that nostalgia for the future that I’ve mentioned innumerable times throughout this blog. In fact, I should probably just change the name of this blog to “In Which Neiha Whines about the Future,” but I digress.
Yeah, it still doesn’t really help that that same jazz bar ideal comes from books and movies, but man, it doesn’t put a dent in my bucket list whatsoever. One of these days, when I’m actually of age, I’ll make it happen. Until then, I’ll pout at movie screens and pages of books, and whine at bar entrances. You’d be surprised how much that actually helps (by that I mean it doesn’t help at all).
Honestly, speaking of bucket lists, I don’t really have one; I’m terrible at making lists so this is literally the first item on my bucket list so far. I should probably spend some time working on that. I can’t help but be envious of the people who’ve had the good sense to jot down the things they want to do, or even collate stuff on the internet for the purpose. My mother might roll her eyes at this, but I honestly wish I was a bit more organized. It would make my life a lot easier in terms of…everything.
(Mamma, I can practically hear you saying, “I told you so.” Shush. Your birthday is over.)
Now that I think about it though, bucket lists are fodder for disappointment…here you have a list of things you want to accomplish throughout your life, hundreds of possibilities that are slowly being scratched out, but the things that you haven’t yet done stare back at you. All of this is to say that being organized is way too much pressure for me and that it justifies why my room is in a constant state of haphazard beauty because cleaning up my room is not healthy for my well-being, damn it.
…excuses – and delirious, 4am-tarnished attempts at humor – aside, I’m honestly impressed at people who keep bucket lists. And hey, for what it’s worth, I seriously hope everyone can cross out all the items on their bucket list.
Short of. You know. Murder or something.
That’s not cool.
wow this post deteriorated in quality as it progressed. i’m going to go sleep now.